Le Quattro Stagioni
by Carlisle Cooperative
Summary: Four seasons, four books four locations, four realizations. The Doctor pursues Rose as the seasons pass.
1. L'estate

**L'estate**

The Doctor rested his chin on the top of the book Rose currently held in her hands. "Ro-ose." She ignored him.

He sat back in a huff, wondering again why he'd agreed to bring her to a planet that had nothing to recommend it but excellent beaches. No running for their lives, no hostile natives, nothing too hot or cold—those had been her demands after their last, particularly messy, adventure; he, feeling guilty for once again putting her in a situation where her life was in danger, had agreed instantly. Thus, they were now settled cosily on a beach blanket on Vodu, home to some of the best (and safest) beaches in the galaxy, during the quietest era in the planet's history. It helped that the planet had not yet been settled.

He should be happy: Rose was contentedly reading one of the trashy romance novels she had picked up during their last stop on a pleasure planet, and they had just finished snacking on some of the local fruit. And yet, he was bored. With nothing to run from, nothing to chase, and no problems to solve, he found himself with a large amount of free time and nothing to do. He'd already analyzed the air, the clear water, the green sand, the flora and the fauna; calculated the rotational deviation of the planet's axis over periods of one hundred years, one millennia, and an era; and determined that if they remained where they were, there was a very good chance the incoming tide would swamp them in ten years' time.

Rose continued to ignore him, and he didn't know what to do to get her attention back on him.

He paused. What was he, a human child? He didn't need Rose's attention to be entertained! No! He was perfectly capable of entertaining himself. And he would.

He looked around, considering. Yes, the temperature was quite nice, but a hike in the forest on the other side of the sage-green dunes didn't excite his interest. Walking along the beach would be lovely—in another two thousand years, once the sea was populated with sea life and this planet's equivalent of seashells washed up. There was always reading, but he'd already polished off "A Comprehensive History of Lock-picking: Planets Λ through Ξ." He couldn't find volumes Α-Δ, Ε-Κ, Ο-Ρ, or Σ-Ω.

He huffed. No response.

He stared. No response.

He snaked a hand towards her exposed foot, fingers lingering mere centimetres from her ticklish sole, his eyes glittering with mischief. No response.

He flopped dramatically onto his back.

No response. He heard the rustle of paper as Rose turned a page.

He sulked for a few moments before a new idea came to him. Making sure she was continuing to ignore him, he stood and casually stepped out of her line of sight. Quietly, he removed his jacket, tie, shirt; Chucks, socks, and trousers. Wearing only his Wallace and Gromit boxer shorts, he paused; Rose calmly turned the next page in her book, showing no indication that she had even noticed he was gone.

Rushing forward, his left hand swooped down and scooped the book from her hands as he lightly ran across the blanket and towards the water. He heard her shout of protest, but was too busy giggling as he carried forward, splashing into the refreshing sea. Being careful to keep the book dry—all the while trying to look like he was doing anything but—he splashed out until he was hip-deep in the transparent liquid and turned around. He was surprised, and not a little pleased, to find Rose had followed him right in. The light, refracted through the crystal clear water, distorted her shape as she dived in to make up speed on him. He remained standing still; he wondered if Rose usually opened her eyes underwater. Perhaps he should have warned her about...

She surfaced, spluttering, her eyes scrunched shut.

...that. The mineral content of the water was surprisingly high although not damaging; it would take Rose a minute or two to clear her eyes. After making sure she was unhurt he quietly slid around behind her and back up to the shore, the sound of the waves covering the noise he created as he returned the book safely to the blanket and then snuck back into the water. Sensing she was about to open her eyes, he hastily sank down into the water, making sure his hands were behind his back and below the surface just as Rose blinked open her eyes and searched him out.

"Doctor!"

He tried to maintain an innocent look. "Yes, Rose?"

She suddenly seemed to notice that it was only his head above the water. "My book!" She dove in his direction, landing with a splash in front of him. "What have you done with my book?!"

"That trashy old thing? Really, Rose, you're going to rot your brain reading things like that. Unless you're looking for new ideas for Rickey?" That idea didn't please him in the least. Rose's look showed she was not amused by it, either. He decided one of his brilliant subject-changes was called for. "Isn't it funny how those types of books are the same across the universe, all heaving bosoms or glands or humps or whatever the female has that the male finds attractive, the male hero of the book all muscle-bound and hair and tan—that bit doesn't really change much. And the phrases they use!" He tutted disapprovingly, turning his back on Rose and bringing his hands to the surface, miming flipping through a book. He was taken by surprise when a very wet Rose launched into his back, hands flailing over his shoulders in search of her book; in her haste, the ball of her right hand caught him in the nose. "Ow!" He splashed dramatically forward in the water, grabbing Rose's wrists as he fell to carry her forward with him.

Resurfacing, he was just opening his eyes as he felt a splash hit him in the face. "Where's my book?!"

He blinked, hands raised in front of him. "Rose! It's up on the blanket! Do you think I'd deliberately damage a book, even one of dubious quality like yours?" As she looked over her shoulder toward the blanket to confirm what he said, he lunged forward and grabbed her by her upper arms. She looked at him, surprised; he grinned at her, hair sticking out crazily as he lifted her partially out of the water and heaved her backwards. She landed with a large splash; when she stood back up, she met his eyes with a challenging stare.

"It's to be like that, is it?"

"Like what?"

"You. Acting like...like...a ten-year old! You're bored, so you interrupt my relaxation by stealing my book!"

Oh dear. She was angry. Perhaps he had miscalculated the best way to relieve his boredom. "I'm sorry?" he tried, hoping to calm her down.

She gave him a considering look ; he tried his best to look repentant. After a moment, she spoke. "To make it up to me, you have to get me one of those kisgr...kisger..."

"Kisgeratii's" he supplied helpfully, naming the fruit they'd had for lunch.

"Kisgeratii's. Please." She gave him a look showing she would brook no argument.

Sighing heavily, he turned to walk back to shore. He hadn't made it two steps before her heard a splash and felt Rose grabbing at his ankles.

An hour later, they were still frolicking in the water, dunking and splashing and laughing like children. The Doctor, most decidedly, was not bored.


	2. L'attuno

**L'attuno**

Maybe, the Doctor considered, they didn't go to enough purely fun paces.

Rose stood just inside the TARDIS door, dripping slime through the grating.

"Watch it," the Doctor told her. "You're getting Flombiddle pollen all over the TARDIS."

This earned him a glare. "I'll 'Flombiddle' you," she muttered.

The Doctor thought he should stop talking. He had not helped matters, earlier, by pointing out that the Flombiddle had concentrated its pollen on her because of her yellow hair--not being deterred, he had added, by the dark roots she had showing. He wasn't sure why mention of her roots should have upset her. She _did_ have roots. And he loved them. There was nothing about Rose that could be improved. Even if there were, there was nothing about Rose that he would change. Not even the disapproval of him that she was currently radiating.

But he was not good at not talking. "Ah, Rose, what's some Flombiddle pollen? Just a part of life."

"The toothbrush hangs on the wall. Put your shoes on the bed, sleep, prepare for life. The last twist of the knife," said Rose.

The Doctor gaped at her. "Is that…Are you quoting Eliot at me?"

She sniffed. "Think I'm not smart enough to read T.S. Eliot? Think I only read romance novels? I'm going to take a shower," she announced, marching out of the room.

More purely fun places, he thought. Like their time splashing happily in the ocean. The Doctor shook himself out of a daydream about Rose, in her bikini, in the ocean, grinning at him like he'd invented the very idea of fun. He frowned at himself. What was _wrong_ with him? He'd been daydreaming about Rose at the beach far too much.

So. They'd avoid the beach. Too distracting. But…a purely fun planet…

The Doctor set the course, then stopped by the library. _Prufrock and Other Observations_ was indeed missing from the shelf. Was she reading _Prufrock_? One of his favorites, that. They'd have to discuss it. He continued on to her room. He could hear the shower running behind the closed door, waited until it stopped, then knocked.

"Can't you give me _two minutes_?" she shouted at him.

He blinked. Was she still upset? "Rose," he called through the door. "I wanted to tell you…" She pulled open the door, dressed in nothing but a towel. The Doctor lost his train of thought.

"_What_?"

The Doctor cleared his throat, forced his eyes up to her face. "Um," he said, then remembered and tried to smile. "Dress for fall."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The Doctor had been in lots of trouble over the course of nine-hundred-odd years of trouble-making. He had never been in this much trouble.

He'd said "dress for fall." She had: jeans, cunning little boots, a pinkish-purplish hoodie, a scarf. And, upon stepping out into the brisk air, she'd run back into the TARDIS…for _earmuffs_. The Doctor had always thought earmuffs were silly. But Rose Tyler in earmuffs made him want to… Rose Tyler in anything made him want to… Rose Tyler in nothing would be better.

"What?" Rose's tongue darted out to lick up some of the caramel-like substance she was eating. The Doctor watched it raptly. Rose licking things made him want to… "You alright? You're looking at me funny."

"Am I?" he asked, just to keep up his end of the conversation, watching her mouth.

"You know, it looks like a caramel apple, but it tastes like…steak, really." She took another bite. "Filet mignon." She swung their joined hands and looked at him playfully. "Can we go pick a pumpkin?"

"We can do anything you want."

"You're not going to tell me it's not a pumpkin? It's a flibbertigibbet, or something?" She grinned at him.

Trouble, he was thinking. Trouble, trouble, trouble. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to tear those silly earmuffs off her head and bury his face in her hair. He wanted to make her gasp—in surprise, in delight, in pleasure. He wanted to know exactly what Rose Tyler's mouth, ears, fingers, toes, knees, elbows, navel, thighs tasted like. He wanted_ her_. He was even willing to allow the shred of possibility that he might be quite distressingly in love with her. So much trouble, he would need to invent a new word, because 'trouble' wasn't really enough.

She stopped walking, looking at him quizzically. "You sure you're alright? You're acting strange. I knew you shouldn't have eaten that other stuff. It looked like candy floss, but it tasted like socks. That can't be good for you."

How did humans do these things? He thought of Prufrock, with his trousers rolled, walking on the beach, eating a peach, mermaids never calling to him, all because he wouldn't say what he wanted to say, because he was scared of her reaction, that _No, that is not what I meant at all_. It would not be him. Better, he thought, to be direct. Just come out and say it. "I think we should go to the TARDIS, lock ourselves in one of our bedrooms, and not come out for hours. While we engage in sexual intercourse," he added, in case it wasn't clear.

For a moment, her face showed astonishment. Then she laughed. "Fine. I get the point. I'll stop asking if you're okay. Can we go pick a pumpkin?"

Well, he thought. That hadn't worked.

Time to formulate a plan.


	3. L'inverno

**L'inverno**

Rose was, once again, tucked away in the garden reading. Rather, she was sitting on a bench, _A Tale of Two Cities _in hand, her eyes focused downwards on the pages, but her thoughts were wandering. The past weeks had been an odd mix of one part running for their lives, and two parts visits to garden planets or beaches. Rose wasn't quite sure if the bucolic stops were on purpose, or the TARDIS's way of trying to tell the Doctor to take a break; but she did know that that wasn't the weirdest bit. No, even weirder was how the Doctor was acting around her.

It had started shortly after their visit to Autumnus; she'd look up from whatever she was doing to find the Doctor staring at her. She'd clear her throat, he'd start and look up at her guiltily, then start babbling as though nothing had happened. When he wasn't staring, there were the odd things he was saying. She had always thought of the Doctor as...well, asexual, really. Last of his kind, all rigid about not interfering with history and following certain rules (when it suited his purpose); then, too, there was his frequently condescending attitude about 'lesser' species, which seemed to apply to any race not his own. She'd been attracted to him from the outset—to both versions of him—but a distinct lack of that type of interest from him had quashed any ideas she might have had about the two of them. When Jack had joined them, she had briefly wondered if maybe he was gay, the flirting and innuendo coming full force when the Doctor and Jack were together, but she had never seen anything to indicate that the Doctor actually fancied Jack. She had finally decided that, while he definitely cared for her and for Jack, the Doctor just didn't do that kind of thing—kissing or sex—in spite of his world-class ability to flirt.

Things had changed on Autumnus. He was being far more outrageous in his statements these days, far more like Jack. What was it he had said, those many weeks ago? _"I think we should go to the TARDIS, lock ourselves in one of our bedrooms, and not come out for hours. While we engage in sexual intercourse." _He'd made similar jokes since then, and she was beginning to wonder if he had come down with some alien infection that was causing his personality to change. Maybe she should go back to the library and see if the TARDIS would provide her with some relevant medical texts. It wasn't like she was making any headway in the book she held on her lap.

It was a short walk to the library, the TARDIS apparently approving of Rose's decision. She walked into the cosy, wood-panelled room to find the Doctor sprawled in one of the many leather wing chairs, head lolled back and book open on his lap as a fire danced cheerfully in the fireplace. A small Christmas tree was twinkling merrily in the corner; the Doctor would be taking her to her mum's soon enough to celebrate the holiday. Time was always all mixed up in the TARDIS, but the Doctor did try to make concessions to her sense of it. If her own biological sense of the passage of time was telling her that it was nearly Christmas, he allowed her to pretend that it actually was. She quietly walked over to ensure he was not ill, being careful not to wake him in the event he was just napping. His breathing was even. She lightly rested the back of her hand against his forehead, turned her hand over and stroked her palm against his cheek, before deciding the Doctor wasn't running a fever. Apparently, he was just tired. She hoped he was sleeping well; when she had first come on board, with her first Doctor, she had discovered that his sleep was haunted by nightmares of the Time War. His regeneration seemed to have cured that, as much as possible, and he now kept to a sleep schedule not unlike her own. Her worry grew—she had never seen _this_ him take a random nap in a chair, and certainly not during the 'day.'

She reached down and gently removed the book precariously perched in his lap. The book appeared to be in English, the yellow pages and musty smell indicating it was old, and she looked at the binding and the flyleaf as she walked over to the leather loveseat across from the Doctor's chair. _Letters addressed to Clarinda, &c____Glasgow, 1802__She furrowed her brow, eyes searching briefly for the author's name before her expression changed to one of surprise.__The Doctor was reading Robert Burns? Settling into the loveseat, she flipped to the page the Doctor had apparently been reading. She blinked, then looked up at the Doctor, considering. Her eyes ran back to the beginning of the particular letter the book had been open to, her lips mouthing Burns' words as she read to help her get the flow; she was two stanzas from the end when the Doctor's voice met her ears._

"_O could the Fates but name the price  
Would bless me with your charms and you!  
With frantic joy I'd pay it thrice,  
If human art and power could do!"_

She looked up at him, wide-eyed. He continued.

"_Then take, Clarinda, friendship's hand,  
(Friendship, at least, I may avow;)  
And lay no more your chill command, -  
I'll write whatever I've to do."_

His gentle voice finished the poem.. He was looking back at her levelly, still sprawled in the wing chair, hair a bit mussed from his nap. She felt the tension in the room grow as they continued to stare at each other.

"Robert Burns?" She licked her lips, unsure of where her nervousness was coming from.

"Are you questioning my literary proclivities?" He drawled, arching an eyebrow.

Rose looked down at the small tome in her lap, then back up at the Doctor. "It's just...well...it's not what I'd expect you to read, y'know?"

"And what would you expect me to be reading, Rose?" He suddenly seemed tired, and Rose's worry grew.

"Phsyics? Something incomprehensible and mysterious and...well, not so _human_."

"Burns was an excellent writer—especially given his upbringing--with a fine feel for the use and rhythm of words; he had a lovely singing voice, as well. And poetry is universal."

The Doctor's gaze continued to bore into Rose, and she felt herself blushing. "Yeah, but love poetry? Doctor, are you ok? You've been looking at me all weird, and saying such odd things; and now you're reading this? If you were any other bloke, I'd say it sounded like you were lovesick, but you're the Doctor, yeah? You don't do that sort of thing."

He looked at her, disbelief colouring his features. He looked about to say something, paused; looked ready to speak again, once again paused. He finally stood up, took a step towards Rose, halted, took another deep breath. He looked down at the elaborate parquet floor before finally looking back up at Rose. "Rose, I..." He, once more, looked down at the floor.

She leaned forward, wanting to help him say whatever he was trying to get out, but not knowing what it was or how to help. She willed him to look up at her; when he did not, she stood and walked over to him. Lightly placing a hand on his shoulder, she spoke. "Doctor, 's me. You can tell me what's bothering you, yeah?"

His head snapped up, his eyes blazing with...something. She took a step back, startled, her hand slowly sliding off his shoulder to return to her side. The next she knew, the Doctor had taken a step towards her and leaned in, his hands moving to gently cup her cheeks as he leaned in for a kiss. She gasped, felt the Doctor's tongue lightly trace her lips, and instinctively went to return the kiss.

Time stopped.

Then, as suddenly as it had happened, the Doctor broke the kiss, his hands slipping from her face to fall back to his sides. He looked at her, helplessly, before turning and walking rapidly out of the Library.


	4. La Primavera Spring

**La Primavera**

It was another pleasure planet. And she thought this was starting to get ridiculous. She didn't think it was the TARDIS trying to irritate him, because he was never annoyed. He just stepped outside and nodded in satisfaction and turned, hand out, seeking hers. And then launched into a lecture about the planet.

And she was worried. Worried because he had begun to kiss her that day in the library. She could not have said that he _did_ kiss her. He had stopped before it had really gone anywhere. Stopped and left and she had not gone after him, although she had wanted to. She had wanted to demand to know just what he was on about, lately, but she hadn't because she was worried. Worried about him. Worried about _them_, the pair of them, the-Doctor-&-Rose, and what it would mean if she told him that what she resented more than his beginning to kiss her was the fact that he hadn't properly finished it. It was that silly asexuality of his, she thought. He had no idea that he couldn't do things like that without, well, stirring her up a bit. And it was worse because of the way he _looked_ at her. She found herself, sometimes, watching him watch her, wondering if he would lean in and kiss her again. She thought sometimes he was on the verge of it, that he was watching her mouth, licking his lips, his eyes dark and glittery in a way that, try as she might, she could think of no interpretation for other than that he wanted her.

But worse than the times when he looked like he wanted her were the times when he looked at her in quite a different way. Sometimes, after she had made him laugh, or after he had made her laugh, there would be a moment of utter stillness from him, a radiation of such deep contentment that she always had to check her impulse to tuck her head against him in a cuddle. They weren't _dating_, she had to remind herself. Except that his eyes, in those moments, would be so deep and bottomless, and it almost looked like…Well, it had to be her overactive imagination, because it almost looked like he was wishing he could have spent the previous 900 years with her. It almost looked like—she could convince herself in those moments that—he was actually in love with her. In those moments, it felt very much to her like they were dating.

Except that he was _him_. And this wasn't at all like him. All of the lolling about on pleasure planets like this.

Today, _this_ was a planet stuck in an eternal spring. Well, at this present time in its history. Sort of like the long Ice Age Earth had been stuck in, he explained as she watched him, astonished, spread his coat under a tree for her as if he were a truly domesticated gentleman. The tree itself had blossoms like wisps of cotton. When the warm breeze sighed by (and it made a noise like a sigh as it came and went), the blossoms would unravel and spin out in long, delicate threads. She watched, fascinated, for a while, before the Doctor pulled out of those bigger-on-the-inside pockets her book. _Emma_. His suggestion. _Try a romance novel by the original romance novel writer_, he'd said, casually, dropping it on the TARDIS console for her one day.

"You left it inside," he said. "But I knew it'd be calm and quiet here, and I thought you might want to finish it."

"Did you bring anything to read?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. I may doze a bit." And he stretched out on the coat, hands stacked under his head, as if that was that.

_Doze a bit?_ She looked at him, still worrying.

He felt her gaze, eventually, opening his eyes. "What?"

"If there were something wrong with you," she said, anxiously, "you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

His hand sought hers, comfortingly, and his eyes stayed steadily on hers. "If there were something wrong with me, I'd tell you immediately."

She believed him. And she resisted the crazy, sudden, inappropriate, irritating impulse to lean down and kiss him. Instead, she settled down to read, sprawling on her stomach next to him while his breaths settled into the evenness of a nap.

She turned the pages of _Emma_, warm and relaxed and content, shifting position every once in a while. She had only a few pages of the book left, when something landed in her hair. She waved at it, absently, thinking it was one of the blossoms, but whatever it was brushed lightly over her hair, coaxed it back and away from her face. She froze. _His hand._ She'd turned her back on him, during the course of her reading, could no longer see him and hadn't sensed him waking up.

"What are you doing?" she asked, tensely. She couldn't help it. He couldn't…_stroke_ her like that.

"Examining your roots," came the answer.

Oh, the essence of romance, he was. She rolled her eyes and went back to her book. Fine. Let him examine her roots. He had no idea that when his hands slid through her hair like that, brushing like that, so, so gently…when his thumb rubbed behind her ear just that way…

"Stop that," she murmured, thinking she could have made that request sound a bit firmer.

"Stop what?"

Oblivious, she thought. He was so bloody oblivious. She gritted her teeth and went back to her book.

"Have you finished the book yet?"

"No. I can't. You keep distracting me."

"I'm not doing anything," he protested. And skimmed a fingertip down the curve of her neck.

She jumped, squeaking. "See, you're—"

"Rose," he whispered, against her ear. "Tell me what _Emma_ is about." And then he tugged on her earlobe with his teeth.

Her eyes closed, of their own volition. "Oh," she sighed. "Stop. You don't know what you're doing."

"I think it's time—" His tongue slid over the pulse in her neck. "For you to consider—" He actually bit at her collarbone, hard enough, she realized in shock, to leave a mark. "The possibility—" He planted a kiss on the back of her neck, underneath her hair, as he flattened a hand over her abdomen. "However remote—" He nuzzled behind her ear, as his hand found its way under her shirt, against her skin. She quivered in reaction. "That I know exactly what I'm doing." His breath skimmed over her cheekbone. "Hmm?"

When had she dropped the book? When had she turned into him? She could remember doing none of it. Except that he shifted, just a bit, and just like that was on top of her. And felt wonderful. And right. And how had they not done this before? And maybe he _did_ know exactly what he was doing.

"Rose," he said, kissing one of her closed eyelids. "Tell me what _Emma_ is about." He kissed the other eyelid, with a tenderness that made her chest hurt.

Why was he so obsessed with the bloody book? "Doctor, what does it matter what the book is about?" she said, irritated, fastening her hands in his hair and trying to bring his lips down to hers.

"Humour me," he replied, detaching her hands from his hair, intertwining them with his, one pairing on either side of her head. "Tell me about the book, and I'll snog you good and properly."

Good deal, she thought, shifting a bit under him, as she tied to concentrate. "It's about a woman. Named Emma."

"Why, that's very good, Rose," he said, and she could _hear_ the amusement dripping off his words.

Smug bastard, she thought, and arched into him, very suddenly, pleased when she heard his breath catch, when he cleared his throat before he spoke again. "What else about Emma?"

She wasn't buying the casual act. He wanted her. She didn't know when this sudden change had happened, but it was quite clear as day. She could feel it, she could hear it. And she didn't bloody care what it meant. If he was ill, or going mad, or something, she'd deal with it later. If she had her way, much, much, much later. "Emma," she said. "She…" She shifted under him again, pretending to be innocent, pretending not to hear the breath he hissed in. "Well, she's a matchmaker, yeah? A bit of a trouble-maker. A bit like you."

"I am not playing the part of 'Emma_' _in _Emma_," he rasped out, his composure quite plainly in shreds. The Doctor, she thought, was clearly not oblivious to what was going on. "Tell me more about Emma. Who does she end up with at the end of the book?"

Damn Time Lord stubbornness, she thought. Why did he want to keep _talking_? "Well, she ends up with Knightley, doesn't she? She ends up with—" _Oh_, went her brain, as things started clicking into place, phrases colliding wildly in her head. Locking themselves in a room for hours while they engaged in sexual intercourse. Reading love poetry. Saying, _Why don't you read _Emma Saying, just now, _I am not playing the part of '__Emma'_ That strange emphasis on Emma. Why? What part was he playing? Maybe, after all, he wasn't ill, or oblivious. Maybe he _meant_ to be having this effect on her. "She ends up with her best friend," Rose realized, breathlessly, and the breathlessness had only a little to do with the fact that she still had a heavy and aroused Time Lord sprawled on top of her.

There was a moment of aching silence between them. "Rose," he said, so, so gently, so, so tenderly, that she could have wept. "Open your eyes and look at me."

She did. She had not opened her eyes since he had begun to seduce her. Which, she realized now, was exactly what he had done. He was very close to her. She could see the chaotic, independent paths of each strand of his hair, could see the differing shades of brown that swirled together in his irises. Her mouth opened in a little "o" of shock. He couldn't possibly mean what he was implying.

He smiled, just one edge of his mouth tipping up at her. "Rose Tyler," he said.

She couldn't breathe. She stared up at him.

"I am, most definitely, not ill. I am, however—and this is by far the silliest thing I've ever said in my very long existence but I tried the direct route with you and it didn't quite work and this is just what I'm willing to do for you, but—I am, in a way, sort of…your Knightley." He looked embarrassed to even be saying it.

Which made it mean so much more. She swallowed. "Are you sayin' I'm Emma?"

"Wellllll, you do have rather a knack for trouble."

"Doctor," she said.

"What?"

"Let go of my hands."

He hesitated a second before doing so, uncertain what she intended to do. But what she did was ruffle them into his hair. "D'you mean this?" she asked.

"I mean it."

"You're really not ill?"

"You know, Rose," he said, sounding a bit irritated, "it hurts even _my_ ego to be told that you interpreted my seductive wiles as an _illness_."

"I don't know, this doesn't seem like you. Mind you, I'm not complaining, but you may have come down with some strange sort of…alien infection, with all sorts of weird medicines and treatments that I'm going to have to administer to you, yeah?"

He smiled at her again, kissed the tip of her nose. "That makes catching an alien infection sound almost fun. But no, there's no alien infection. Or, if there is, it's a lovely one, and we won't be trying to cure me of it."

"As long as it doesn't kill you. I've had two good versions of you. I don't fancy taking my chances on a third. I like the one I've got now."

"Well, that's excellent, then. But I'm fine. Not sick at all." He dipped his head down, brushed his lips very lightly over hers. "This is me," he whispered. "I may have taken a long time being honest about it, but…This is very much me."

She surprised him by grinning. "My Knightley. Of sorts. Didn't you promise to snog me good and properly?"

He grinned back. "Why, yes. I did."


End file.
